


mercy

by coffeesuperhero



Series: Lady's in Charge [2]
Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Dom/sub, Dom/sub Play, F/M, Face Slapping, Feelings, Femdom, Hair-pulling, Implied Consent, Knifeplay, Silence Kink, Verbal Humiliation, implied blanket consent, spoilers for the thor 2 trailer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-09
Updated: 2013-08-09
Packaged: 2017-12-22 23:10:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/919120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeesuperhero/pseuds/coffeesuperhero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Lady Sif is not known for being merciful, but when Loki is very, very obedient, she gives him what he needs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	mercy

**Author's Note:**

> **NB** : This story is intended to function as one in which consent is implied, the scene being part of a long-term ( _very_ long-term, since these are Asgardians) established D/s relationship, but given that Loki's sort of under lock and key, it's possible to read it as dubious consent, so please be warned. 
> 
> Takes place a little while after [double-edged sword](http://archiveofourown.org/chapters/1779060); references that story briefly.

Thor has declared that he will leave in the morning, taking Jane and Loki with him, so Sif takes her opportunity where she finds it. Wisely or not, they have allowed Loki out of his prison, though guards stand watch outside his bedchamber, and she is given to understand that some spell of Odin's keeps him from making some magical exit. She cares not for the mechanics of it, only that she has access to him: after so many years at this, she knows him well enough to know that she is invited, especially as he had presented her with his pretty throat this morning, long neck pressed willingly up against her blade, a silent plea that she may not have another chance to fulfill if she does not take her chance this evening.

The guards let her pass into his chamber without a word, and she finds Loki pacing the floor in front of his bed, though he stops when she enters the room. 

He opens his mouth to speak, but she does not let him get that far. Her open palm meets the side of his face with strength and speed; she targets his left cheek, still pink from the sting of Jane Foster's fist. He was, no doubt, expecting it, but the sound of the slap is still pleasant in her ears and her palm tingles with anticipation. 

"One word from your hateful mouth, and I will be gone and you will get nothing," she says, her fingers twisted up in his hair, pulling just hard enough to cause the annoying kind of pain that makes him fidget and squirm and _beg_. "I did not come here to talk with you. _Nod_ if you understand." 

He nods, once, slowly, but still she waits, watching his face. She grips his hair tighter and tighter until he _sighs_ and closes his eyes, and then abruptly she releases him, shoving him roughly away. 

" _Kneel_ ," she commands, and he does, wordlessly and without prevarication, but also not without a hint of a smile, for the significance of the word is not lost on him and she knows it. It was well chosen, and she knows that he understands her purpose when he lifts his chin, offering up the pale white column of his throat to her, just as he had earlier. 

She laughs as she draws her dagger, but she does not place it at his throat, because he _wants_ it, and he can wait. This time the slap is across his right cheek, and she does not wait to hear him whimper at the pleasure of the pain before she grips his face savagely, fingers digging into his hollow cheeks, forcing him to look up at her. 

"Keep your eyes closed and your mouth shut until I have use for it," she says, tapping his cheekbone lightly with the rounded hilt of her dagger. Reluctantly, he closes his eyes; she raps his knuckles with the flat side of the blade. 

"If you have the temerity to hesitate when I give you a command--" she begins, and he remembers well enough to drop his head in a reasonable facsimile of shame. 

"Very well," she says, affecting a bored tone; his cheeks are red with more than just the memory of her slaps, for well she knows how much he hates the thought that he is not keeping her interest. "I suppose it would amuse me to see just how worthless you've become since you've been away." 

She stalks around him, the dagger in her hands singing with vicious promise as she goes. She sends it slicing through the air next to his ear; he shivers and chokes back a moan. 

"How many others have there been?" she asks, voice heavy and rich like the leather of his old armor. His head tilts in the direction of her voice, a curious expression on his face, though he obeys her order and keeps his eyes firmly shut. For daring to question her, she smacks the flat side of the blade across his backside, and his features immediately shift back to a neutral subservience. 

"Do not play coy with me," she cautions, stepping around behind him, dragging her nails across the line of his shoulders, the nape of his neck. "You took that punch so willingly this morning, I cannot imagine you haven't been on your knees for every being in the universe who had a use for that once-pretty mouth of yours," she continues, her fingernails scratching sharp and tough along the sensitive skin of his scalp behind his ears. "Who else have you been kneeling for?" 

He shakes his head, and she circles round to spit in his face before she slaps him again, the sound of it echoing through the sparsely appointed chamber. 

"Liar," she hisses, pulling him by his hair and placing the blade at his neck, which earns her a whimper and another sigh when she moves the blade away again. She slides it against the side of his loose tunic and then flicks it upward, mindful not to cut skin; the dagger slices cleanly through the seams of his tunic and the garment sags down. "You cannot be five minutes in my presence without offering me your throat in full view of all Asgard, why should I believe that you haven't debased yourself in every sordid corner of the galaxy while you've been away?" 

He grunts his disapproval at the accusation, but he does not make a sound when she backhands him, though she sees the effort it takes him to stay silent and keep still, eyes closed. On any other occasion, she would have beaten him by now, or at least let him beg for it, but without the use of his mouth he has only silent obedience to offer her, and the thrill of that is just as powerful as the sounds he usually makes when she strikes him. She has missed the sight of his delicate skin colored pink and red and purple from the implements of her delicious tortures, and from the sound he makes when her nails lightly retrace the path that her palm has just taken across his tender cheek, she knows he has missed them, too. 

But he will not get what he wants from her tonight, not yet, for she mourned with the rest of Asgard when he betrayed them; for punishment, he can stay silent on his knees for a good while longer. It is not entirely without the desired effect, she knows: his trousers are not thick or sturdy enough to conceal his arousal, and it well past time she took advantage of that. 

"Do you remember," she says conversationally, toeing the line of his cock under his trousers with the hard plating of her boot, watching him fight not to lean into it unless she allows it, "what I did to the first young warrior who tried to court me by polishing my armor without my permission?" 

He gulps audibly, and because his eyes are still closed, she allows herself to smile. 

"What did I tell you then?" she asks, laying the blade flat against his left cheek, relishing the way he hisses when it slides against pink skin still sensitive from slapping. 

"I do not," she says, running the blade through the back side of his tunic, leaving it hanging haphazardly on his thin frame before turning her attention to his trousers, "appreciate other people touching my _possessions_." 

Sif surveys him as well as her handiwork. His tunic is in tatters that flutter to the floor around him, with only his trousers still left mostly intact; she watches the way he trembles with need when the sound of her boot moves nearer. She stops circling to stand directly in front of him, leaning down so that she can speak into his ear. 

"But that is hardly you, any longer, is it, you who decided you would fare better alone in the universe than here at my feet. What did you think I would do when she struck you today? Did you think I would blame her for it? Did you think I would come to your aid?" The dagger flicks through what remains of the thin material of his trousers as though it were naught but air. A groan that sounds suspiciously like her name escapes him; she leans closer, steadying herself by twisting her hand up in his hair, and bites down hard against his neck, trailing her teeth up to his ear before pulling away. 

When she steps backward, she bends down to take what remains of his tunic and trousers and undergarments with her, ripping them away with ease and tossing them aside before turning back to face him, naked and trembling with need. 

"That's better," she says, pinching his ear between two fingers and pulling gently up, moving his head this way and that way, no particular purpose in it other than the need to remind him that he is hers to do with as she pleases.

She makes one more circle around him, inspecting his body, her hand hovering just above his skin but never touching him; he shivers at the proximity of her, and she delights in knowing how much he must ache for her touch. Even after his time in exile and his stay in that cell, he is not unpleasant to look upon, not that she would tell him, for she is not disposed currently to allow him any tender mercies in word or action. She steps behind him and leans in close; he jumps at the shock of the cool metal of her armor against his skin. With extraordinary care, she lets the hand holding the dagger drift slowly down his body, tracing the line of his breastbone with the knob of the hilt. He shudders as she directs it further and further down his body and all the way up his cock from root to tip.

She hums in his ear and presses gently on his shoulders; he sinks lower, kneeling completely before her, making it easier for her to tease him. "I should leave you here like this. I should leave you here and call the guards in to laugh at you, or parade you through the corridors and let them all mock you openly for daring to think I'd have anything to do with you after everything you've done," she says, palming his cock this time with her free hand, making him writhe. From her place behind him, she spits down over his shoulder, saliva flying out to land on the hard length of him, and he jerks against her hand. "Look at you. Pathetic. You'd beg if I let you speak, wouldn't you?" 

His mouth opens, and she pulls her hand away from his cock to yank hard on his hair.

"I didn't say you could open that mouth," she says, fingers leaving his hair to slap over his lips, and he closes his mouth with a moan, no doubt enjoying the sting of it. "I asked you a question. Answer." 

For the second time this evening, he speaks without words, nodding his assent; she rewards him with a sharp stinging slap of her palm against one of his thighs. The sound he makes sends hot blood throbbing through her own veins; she switches the dagger to her other hand and gives him a hard slap on his opposite leg, just to watch him jump and feel him squirm back against her. She runs her hand over his back and around to his chest, tracing a path up his throat to his face, her fingers curving around his jaw as though he were a horse she intended to bridle. _Mine_ , her fingers say when she squeezes; he exhales a whimpering sigh. 

"Good boy. Now put this in your mouth instead of letting your horrible words escape it," she says, pushing the hilt of her dagger between his lips. He accepts it willingly, gratefully; she can hear his teeth clicking around the metal as it slides carefully into his mouth. "There you go. A silver blade to match that silver tongue. Now _suck_." 

"I was going to fuck you with this," she tells him, listening to the greedy little noises he makes with his mouth around the hilt of her blade. "But after this morning, I am not feeling very charitable." 

He sucks harder around the hilt of the dagger, and she smiles a dangerous smile that he may not be able to see, but which she is certain he can feel.

She pushes her fingers into his mouth along with the hilt of the dagger; he answers her unspoken command and nips and sucks at them. She lets him have at them for a few minutes, reveling in the knowledge that he is completely at her mercy, entirely hers to do with what she wishes. She could make him come like this, her hilt in his mouth and her hand on his cock; she could leave him wrecked and let him work his frustration out alone; she could haul him up on the bed and fuck him until they both screamed. 

Sif leans in closer to his ear, running her teeth over the shell of it before tugging on his earlobe, biting down on it until he whimpers. "Hmm. Are you sorry for what you've done? Should I let you attempt to make amends? Should I _make_ you?"

He makes a choking sound that has nothing to do with the size of the hilt of the dagger in his mouth, and she smiles against his ear. 

"Oh, I _see_ ," she says, shoving his horrible words from days before back at him now, timed with several slow, agonizing strokes of her hand around his cock. "You _missed_ me." 

He sighs as much as he is able, and she gives him a gentle swipe of her thumb across the tip of his cock. This is the truth of them; he is only ever honest when he says nothing, and she is only ever caring when he cannot see it. 

She strokes him carefully and slowly for a moment more, considering. She could pull her hand away and make him wait; she has done it before. But he has done what she has asked of him for tonight at least, and for that she will allow him a little relief. By all the stars, she has missed giving him what he needs; he may not understand it entirely, but this arrangement of theirs has always done as much for her as it has done for him. So instead of prolonging his punishment, she takes the dagger's hilt from his mouth, carefully wiping off the slick of his saliva before she puts the blade back to his throat, just as she had done with her sword earlier this morning. She knows he understands her perfectly when he slumps back against her in relief before he lifts his chin, neck exposed to her blade. 

"That's right," she hums. "You know how it goes. You get what you need when you do as you're told." 

Dagger in one hand and his cock in the other, she lets him have what he needs at last, her own desire mounting at the noises he makes while she works him over. 

"If you say _anything_ when you come for me," she orders, teeth bared, "it will be my name." 

It does not take him long after that to obey her, and loudly enough that she is certain the guards know exactly what they are about, if not all of Asgard. He slumps back against her, sweaty and spent; she spares him a moment's open affection and presses her lips to his temple. 

"Good boy," she whispers against his hair, taking the dagger away from his throat and tucking it back into its sheath at her side. She holds him for a moment longer, running both her hands over his back and his chest, waiting for him to come back to himself. As his breath resumes a more normal pace, she moves to get to her feet, for she has her own needs to attend to now and no desire to repay all his considerable evils by allowing him to have anything to do with them. 

Still she does not leave immediately; she will be angry with him for a long time yet, but she stays and checks him over all the same, letting him rest his forehead against her hip while she runs her fingers through his hair. In the space between these heartbeats, at least, they are at peace. At the gentle brush of her thumb across his cheek, he looks up at her, eyes wide; her heart is heavy when she sees surprise written on his face, but she will not show her sadness. 

"This is not nearly enough of an apology, Loki, but even at my most vindictive, I would never abandon you," she says, cupping his face in one hand, the point of his chin resting in her palm. He closes his eyes, resting; when he opens them again, the peace of this interlude has left them, and she knows this is over. With a sigh, she releases him and steps away. "There is water by the bed, and I expect you to drink it. Can you stand?" 

For answer, he gets to his feet; she gives him a nod and starts for the door.

"No marching orders, my lady?" he asks. "I do leave tomorrow. Perhaps--" His voice is cruel and mocking, but whatever else he might have said, whatever cutting remark he intended to make, it dies when she turns and stares at him, for once allowing all her sadness at his betrayal to push past her anger and her disappointment. When he looks as though he might speak again, she wraps her hand around the hilt of her dagger, a reminder of what has passed between them tonight and all the other nights like it, and he quiets. Sif holds his gaze until he looks away to stare at the stones underneath his feet, and then she gives him the order she has given him a thousand times since he fell, while she was all alone in the solitude of her bedchamber. 

"Come home," she says tiredly, and takes her leave.


End file.
